


Used

by SouthernBuck



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Whump, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Good Parent Hosea Matthews, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury, RDR2, Rape Aftermath, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27698372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBuck/pseuds/SouthernBuck
Summary: After an attack he wasn't prepared for, Arthur is more shaken up than he's willing to admit.Family are always there to help though, even when he doesn't know he needs it.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 118





	Used

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaa hi guys. I'm new to the fandom and haven't finished the game yet so forgive me if I've made any characterization or story mistakes. I've been trying to avoid spoilers which is hard when I've been sucked in this hard, couldn't resist writing some fic. My heart hurts so much for Arthur, and I just got the scene with the swamp guy felt so bad I had to write some comfort for him. He deserves better.  
> This is probably mostly Hosea being a Good Dad™. I love Hosea so much, I really hope nothing happens to him but I figure something might eventually because he has a cough and medicine back then wasn't great. Then again I think Arthur has a cough too but at least nothing can happen to him because he's the main character lol X3 I just hope he gets a happy ending I'm so excited to finish this game.
> 
> Anyway I hope this is okay, TW for non-con and vomiting. <3

He groans heavily as he wakes, the throbbing in his head being the first thing to hit him, closely followed by the grim texture of the wet mud caking the side of his face. It takes a moment to piece together the situation, blinking open his eyes as the sunlight assaults his pained vision, the hazy view of trees and mud at least placing him in the swamps.

As he pushes himself into a labored sitting position, a sharp grunt of pain forces out of him as a vicious sting assaults his rear. Instinctively moving a hand to touch his soaked behind he thinks momentarily that he’s hit a new low and unconsciously pissed himself until his hand comes back into vision coated in crimson.

The night before comes back to him in an instant.

He’d just been passing through. It was late, he was exhausted. That old feller had called out from his cabin inviting him inside for some grub. Bit of an odd looker but most of them inbred folk out here was as far as he was concerned; and it aint in his good nature to judge how anyone lives their lives so long as they weren’t hurting nobody.

He’d been too trusting. Should’a learned after that sick pig farmer couple thieving off him but once again, he’s been made a fool. Trusted a friendly stranger’s good nature. The feller had seemed harmless enough, just one old man alone in the swamp didn’t seem like a threat. The food he was cookin’ had smelled good; hot gumbo, smelled like crawfish. So long as he didn’t accept any strange drinks, he’d figured what the hell.

Next think he’d known he’d had his skull cracked by…god knows what. A plank of wood? Maybe?

He stands on wobbly legs, feeling a nauseous wave rush through him. Suddenly the various aches all over his body are starting to come to his attention. Scratches all over his back and sides made by filthy nails, his throat hurts and there’s a fowl taste in his mouth he isn’t sure he wants to identify, most of all it’s the sharp pain in his ass that’s bleeding a stain all across the seat of his pants and leaving his lower belly feeling sore and unsettled.

“Oh…my lord” is all he can manage as he leans against the closest tree, slowly reaching down to button up his pants and suspenders which had been left lazily undone almost as an added torment.

Screwing his eyes closed he tries to piece together any broken memories of the night through his splitting headache. There were moments he awoke, woozily trying to reach for his gun but finding his hands restrained. The man’s voice purring in his ear with stinking hot breath. He moves a hand sharply to his collar to feel around instinctively for marks, grimacing as his fingers trace at slimy bitemarks from the few teeth in that the hillbilly bastard had managed to keep in his mouth.

As he lets his hand fall, he presses his forehead to the thick tree trunk with a quiet gag, feeling the threat of vomit at the base of his throat and forcing it down. Breathing heavily for a few moments he regains his composure and moves to wipe the sludge from his face, whistling through his teeth and silently praying he hadn’t been dumped too far away from Tamar. When the quiet thud of hoofbeats trot up close by he moves a hand to fondly stroke the Shire’s soft black main. “Alright girl” He mutters softly under his breath, taking her reins as he pats at his empty gun belt with a frown. Bastard took his pistol, his favorite engraved one too. And his money.

“Least I’ve still got my journal, and my clothes I s’pose” He mutters to only himself and the horse, slowly pulling himself up into the saddle. A small pained noise escapes him as he sits down, cursing under his breath a few times and standing in the stirrups, glancing down at the bloody assprint he’s left on his nice saddle with an exhausted look.

Riding is going to hurt like a bitch but it’s too long a trek to walk, especially with his legs still feeling wobbly as a new-born doe. Briefly he debates his options, he could head into that city, Saint Denis, a little down the way and get washed up, see if he could steal a little cash from some drunkard’s pocket and get some clean clothes. He could find that inbred hillbilly sick freak’s house again, retrieve his things and burn the fucker’s place to the ground with him in it.

He didn’t really want to head back to the camp like this, penniless and filthy and covered in blood, but at the same time something stirred uncomfortably in his chest and the desire to be around familiar faces was stronger than he could resist.

“Eyup” he mumbles as Tamar starts at a slow trot, gritting his teeth as the gentle motion assaults his sore behind, bringing threatening moisture to his eyes. They head in the vague direction of the camp once he has his bearings, but stop a little ways out just up river. Feeding the Shire a carrot from his bag he slides off her back with a grunt and brushes at her thick, warm neck for a moment fondly before stumbling to the waterfront, staring out at the rushing water sparkling in the dim morning light before slowly undressing himself.

He’s never been a shy man, can’t afford to be in this walk of life. Ain’t no privacy living under tarps in cots with a whole group of people, gotta bathe in front of someone, you just do, gotta piss in front of someone, no shame in it, it’s just part of the life. Though as he drops his pants and peels his bloodied union suit away from his aching body, a pang of discomfort runs through him at the sheer vulnerability of his nakedness. It’s less shame for what god gave him and more of a sickening humiliation at the idea of someone seeing the dirty scratches and bites on his skin and the sticky dried blood coating his ass cheeks and figuring out what just happened.

Heading into the river quickly despite the painful icy chill, he ducks down until the water covers his shoulders. He doesn’t have any soap on him but still scrubs helplessly at the marks on his skin, trying to rid himself of the feeling of dirt. It’s infuriating how he can still feel an uncomfortable swell inside his ass from the violation and he desperately presses his fingers to the torn hole despite the violent pain it causes to try to clean the nasty feeling out from inside. He dreads the next time he feels the urge to take a shit because he already knows it’s going to sting like the devil.

It’s nearly mid morning by the time he stumbles out of the water. He’d stay even longer is he wasn’t concerned his lips were ‘bout to start turning blue. Before he re-dresses he holds up his bloodied pants and briefly considers washing them in the river before abandoning the idea. They’d take all day to dry in the cold weather and fresh blood was still dripping down his leg in soft rivulets so the stain would soon enough return. Instead he drops the pants into the sludgy mud of the riverbank and kneads them into the dirt with his heal until they’re suitably filthy to hide the blood. It feels wrong somehow, putting on filthy clothes when he’s only just gotten clean, yet he knows he’ll have to do whatever it takes to hide the evidence of the situation at camp. Lord knows the nosy bastards would have questions he damn sure didn’t feel like sharing the answers to.

Christ what would they even think if they knew their strong man had been knocked out and…. violated like that. By some pathetic old man to make things worse. Not a gang of armed O’Driscols, not some gunned up lawmen, or hefty bounty hunters. Just one disgusting old man with a plank of wood and some chain. He isn’t sure if they’d tease or pity him but both sounded equally terrible, and the shame would never leave, that he’s sure of. It almost didn’t feel real that such a thing had happened to him of all people. He’d taken bullets and survived torture, yet one crack to the skull had rendered him helpless and vulnerable.

As he climbs back onto the horse he feels his brows knit together and his stomach churn. He’d been in worse pain before, tenfold, he’d been through much worse things. Yet this just felt different, he feels sick to his stomach and humiliated, violated. He’s slept with women before, granted only a couple’a times and not for a fair few years, not that he doesn’t pretend otherwise on a weekly basis around the campfire . He’s never taken to bed with a man however, and this wasn’t so much a shared experience than something taken from him unwillingly. He felt dirty and he felt used, and much as he would hate to admit it out loud, a little scared. Of what exactly he wasn’t sure, but the tightness in his chest was the same as the one he’d feel when he’d have a run in a little too close for comfort with a nasty gator.

It’s not half an hour down the path when he trots up to camp and climbs as carefully down from Tamar as he can, trying to steel his expression best he can to hide the wince of pain from the ride. It looks like some of the men are out either hunting or on a job, and everyone else seems too busy about their mornings to pay him much attention which he’s thankful for. He offers polite nods and greetings as he passes by to avoid suspicion as he does his best not to limp, heading straight to his cot for a little privacy.

“Well you’re a mess, I don’t care what the excuse is, I won’t have folk tracking filth around camp,” Miss Grimshaw lectures as she strides over almost immediately, grabbing a washcloth on her way from the basin and throwing it at his face before he’s even had the chance to sit down. “Strip. The girls are about to do laundry anyway and you look more mud than man,” She demands without any room for argument, heading right past him without a second glance to go and chide Tilly for something or another.

“Nice ta’ see you too Miss Grimshaw” He grunts, shifting to remove his coat and dumping it lazily on the ground. He’s glad to have the canvas tarp over his tent to pull down for a little privacy, usually he never bothered, it wasn’t like anyone in the camp hadn’t already seen it all before, but this time he didn’t much fancy the idea of unwanted eyes catching a glance of blood. He strips, changing into a clean union suit and tugging on some pants, not bothering with a shirt. His head still wracked with pain and a nap sounded mighty appealing right now.

He briefly considers hiding the dirtied clothes, taking them and washing them himself elsewhere. Though his pants seemed suitably muddied and he was sure any blood could be explained through the excuse of a fight. Trying to hide things would only cause more suspicion so he leaves the dirtied laundry in a heap in the wash bucket for the girls before climbing sorely onto his cot with a groan. The seat of his clean pants already feels warm and wet with blood and he grimaces at the unpleasantness of it, though his head pounds with enough force to stop him caring much at this moment. He needed to rest up, just for a bit. It had been a long night.

_\--_

_Hot, stinking breath._

_Filthy clawed nails._

_The splintered dirty floor scratching his face._

_Vile heat assaulting his rear._

_Burning pain forced down his throat._

_“Oh, you struggled, and you lost….but it was quite a tussle I tell you. Quite a tussle, my pet.”_

\--

“Arthur. Arthur!”

He awakes with a sharp jolt, nearly headbutting Dutch who looms over him, brows knitted in concern.

“Whu? Who?” He grunts, narrowing his eyes at the older man as he presses an exhausted thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m- Whatchu need?”

“You were yellin’ in your sleep.” Calls a voice from behind Dutch, which upon looking over belongs to Mary Beth who’s hovering by the tent flap cautiously. “We was getting’ worried.”

“Thought you were being attacked or something with the racket you were making, had half the camp grabbing their guns. You alright, son?” Dutch asks gently, though with an amusement clear on his features.

He winces a little, sitting up despite the pain bellow. “I uh. Bad dream, sorry. Didn’t know I talked in my sleep. Got into a bit of a fight last night and hit my head tha’s all. Probably just knocked a few brain cells loose, you know how it is.” He grunts, running a hand across the side of his stubbled chin awkwardly. “Didn’t mean tuh cause any panic.”

“Well good, I’ll leave you to it then.” Dutch dismisses casually, turning to leave. “It’s nearly noon, Arthur. Maybe you should get up and go see if you can chase up a few leads or hunt somethin’. This camp ain’t the place for lazing around all day.”

“Shore.”

He stretches out his stiff shoulders gently as Dutch leaves his sight, grunting a curse of embarrassment as he grabs his hat from the bedside table to place back on his head. He did more for this camp than most of the others put together, would it be too much to ask for someone to get off his back for five minutes.

“Hey…you….really alright, Arthur?” The quiet voice of Mary Beth asks gently as she remains at the entrance to his little tent, one delicate hand touching the wooden pike holding the tarp in place. There’s a confused worry etched into her features but beyond that he sees maybe something of a haunted look in her eyes.

“Peachy,” He grunts, rubbing at his stiff neck, “Didn’t mean to alarm anyone, can’t even remember what I was dreamin’ ‘bout. Probably something stupid.”

She remains in place for a moment before hesitantly stepping inside, running her hand over the front of her skirts and clearing her throat softly, voice quiet enough for just the two of them. “I didn’t mean the yellin’. Though that was mighty out of place for you,” When he doesn’t wave her away she crosses over the small space and perches on the overturned crate he was using as a table. “That Kieran boy told me there was blood on your saddle, and when me and Tilly was washin’ clothes I noticed a fair amount of blood in your…unmentionables. I know all you boys is proud and like to act tough but I just hate to think if you got hurt you wouldn’t tell someone. Folk die from infections and whatnot all the time.”

He lets out a heavy sigh, running rough fingers over his eyes as he attempts to properly wake up. Shame curdles in his stomach, he forces himself not to show it. “Ahhh, M’fine. Don’t you worry ‘bout me, I’m a big boy I can take care of myself. Just got grazed by a bullet somewhere unsavoury. Ain’t nothin’ serious and I’ll make sure it don’t get infected. Just a little embarrassed I guess,” He laughs humourlessly, trying not to meet her eyes though noticing her body language visually softening from it’s tension, “It’s just bleedin’ a little more than usual, more worried about the state of my pants than the state of my body. Don’t go tellin’ anyone about this, I’d never hear the end of it from Bill and Javier.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Mary Beth assures quickly, giving him a shy smile as she stands, “I think I got something that can help, wait here-“

She scurries off for a moment before returning with a handful of soft white rags, putting them down on his bedside table. When he gives her a confused squint she lets out a short awkward laugh. “They’re absorbent, for the blood. Shame to ruin nice clean clothes. You can throw them out after, I have plenty.”

“Thanks,” He murmurs, still squinting in confusion as he picks up one of the rags to look over, “Why you got such an abundance of small bandages like this?”

She rolls her eyes, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you really that dense or do you just play the fool?” She asks as she turns to leave. It’s both sharp and fond in a way all the ladies in the camp seem to have mastered, something he’ll never truly understand.

When she’s gone he quietly changes for the second time of the day, this time carefully placing the bundle of rags in the seat of his union suit to protect it from the blood. It feels a little bulky and uncomfortable, but once he’s got his pants on it ain’t at all noticeable and he’s grateful he won’t have to change again any time soon.

He shoves his bloodied clothes and bedsheets into his clothes chest away from prying eyes, then pulls out his journal and sits on his stiff cot. Fingers fiddling uncomfortably with the small carbon pencil as he works through his pained thoughts the only way he knows how.

\--

_Grunting. Snarling. Purring._

_The slapping of skin hitting skin._

_Chains digging into his wrists._

_Filthy, worn hands touching him. Everywhere._

_“See, friendship ain’t so tough…and neither is you.”_

\--

“You free right now, Morgan?” John calls over as he exits his tent groggily, tossing his journal onto his bed.

“Depends on what for, Marston.” He calls back playfully, crossing his arms to look over as the younger man crosses the camp to meet him.

John, unamused as ever, stops before him with a hand resting on his hip lazily. “Goin’ fishin’. Pearson wants some bass for tomorrow, he’s on some kinda seafood kick lately. I’m tryin’ to avoid Dutch at the moment, he wants me out on a job with Micha and I just ain’t sure I got it in me to deal with the bastard right now. Only goin’ up river a few miles, but could use the company.”

“Why not take Jack? Kid could do with some time with his pa.” He asks half jokingly, though regardless, follows John over to the horses and mounts Tamar.

“Ah come on, don’t start that again. Some other time, okay. Can’t be feeding a camp while playing nursemaid.”

“You never was good at multitasking. I’m amazed you can remember to breathe and move at the same time most days.”

“Shut up.”

\--

They stand by the waters edge in a peaceful cove by the river, side by side, eyes on the water as their lines bob quietly on the waves. It’s cold, but peaceful. No wind or rain, not a bad day for it.

“-then she kicked me in the shin. Just because I said she was demanding too much. Like, I was in the middle of guard duty, what the hell did she want me to do? Just drop it and leave us unprotected?” John grumbles, kicking his foot in the wet dirt of the shoreline in frustration “I swear, I’ll never understand women.”

“I don’t think she meant for you to drop guard duty and read to him right that second. She probably just wants you to spend more time with the kid when you can. She kicked you ‘cuz you’re being an ass about it,” He replies gruffly, tugging his line a little to make the bobber dance on the surface of the water, “You’re the only feller in this camp in a committed relationship and yet I swear you don’t know the first thing about women.”

John tugs his line sharply, reeling in a decent sized fish and admiring it for a moment before tossing it into their sack. “Must know more about them than you at least, can’t remember the last time I even saw you with a girl. When was the last one, Mary right? Like, five years ago?”

“Shut yer face. Ain’t got much time for those things these days,” He huffs in return, wearily watching his unmoving bobber and wondering if he should have opted for a lure rather than a piece of cheese, “Dutch has me playing henchman all the time like some workhorse. Besides, ugly mug like mine I figure my days convincing ladies to be sweet on me are long gone, you’ll hit that age in a few years. Ain’t no point getting’ involved anymore, love is a fools game.”

“Probably for the best, you act like a lovesick buffoon when you like a girl. You’re good enough at makin’ a fool of yourself without fallin’ head over heals for some woman every two steps. I don’t miss those days much. Remember the time you gave that Mary girl a ring and she-“

He cuts John off as he reels back his empty line and tugs off the wet piece of cheese, tossing it at the younger man’s head. “Shut yer trap if you know what’s good for you, Marston. I ain’t in the mood to talk about that,” He mutters, rummaging around for his lure and connecting it to the end of the line before tossing it back, “You don’t even know how lucky a fool you are for having managed to hold onto a gal like Abigail. She’s a good one and you don’t even seem to see it half the time.”

Picking the wet cheese from his hair in moderate irritation, John casts his line again too and only grunts in response, glaring at the water for a moment. “She only puts up with me ‘cuz I got her pregnant. That’s what you get for sleepin’ with someone I s’pose.”

He isn’t sure why he suddenly feels his stomach turn at the mention of sex, images of the nearly toothless, filthy hick tying him down with chains appearing in his head again. He feels a slight shiver run through him and silently blames it on the chilly air. He stays silent for a moment, thoughtful, then sighs as he awkwardly kneads his boot heal into the thick river mud.

“You uh. Ever bedded’ with someone you didn’t want to?”

He isn’t quite sure what possesses him to voice the question, and as soon as the words come out he already feels a little sick with regret and keeps his eyes firmly on the water to avoid looking at the other man.

John shifts quietly, clearly a little taken back and confused by the question. “What like, sleeping with an ugly working girl cuz you thought she was alright in the dark but once you got inside you realise she looks like the back end of a cow so you close your eyes and pretend she’s someone else?”

He blinks a few times in confusion before turning to glare at the younger with a bewildered look. “Whu…Why in the hell is that a situation you’ve been in?”

“I ain’t! Was just tryin’a figure out what the hell kinda question you was askin’?” John snaps back, face rather red as he suddenly bristles, a little defensive and embarrassed as he shuffles on the spot to keep warm. “What do you mean have I slept with someone I didn’t want to sleep with? Why would I?”

“I don’t know! Christ, it’s just a question, Marston. Was just making conversation,” He snaps back, the nausea roiling his stomach a little as embarrassment runs cold through his blood, “I just meant like….has a girl ever…forced you?”

There’s a moment of silence that follows when the question seems to click for the younger man, who furrows his brow thoughtfully and clicks his tongue. “No. Don’t think so. I mean, I don’t think I’ve met a girl that could if she wanted to, or would bother trying,” He replies slowly, then turning to glance inquisitively at Arthur, “…Has it ever happened to you?”

“No,” He answers, probably a little too quickly, eyes fixed on his bobber in the water, “I mean, I’d like to see someone try. They wouldn’t get past my gun belt unless I was unbelievably drunk, and by that point I’m sure I wouldn’t care who she was too much.”

The silence that follows this time feels stifling, and he’s grateful when he finally feels a tug on his line and reels in a smallmouth bass, focusing on carefully unhooking it before tossing it into the sack. He risks a glance at John before he casts the line again, the younger staring at the water with a thoughtful frown.

“…One time I uh. I was drunk, somewhere near tumbleweed I think for some reason. Was in some rundown saloon, was having a rough time. Was before I left, Jack was pretty young and I dunno, parenting was something I wasn’t handling too well. Just needed a night away,” John mutters suddenly, gaining Arthurs full attention, he looks uncomfortable but talks with a calm clarity, “Some girl was flirting with me about eight drinks in, told her to scram. I’m a lot of shitty things but I wouldn’t cheat on the mother to my kid, even if our relationship ain’t always what it should be. Anyway, she kept goin’ anyway and started tryin’a put her hands down my pants. Didn’t go any further than that, I stormed off at some point and crashed out in a gutter, but it was uncomfortable. Didn’t know how to get her to stop without throwing hands, and I didn’t much want to get into a drunken fight with a lady. I dunno.”

“Bad business. Glad you didn’t do nothin’ stupid though,” He responds softly, shoulders relaxing a little as he watches the gentle breeze blow their bobbers out a little further, “You ever told anyone ‘bout this?”

John reels in another catch, it’s just a small Pickerel but he tosses it into the sack anyway, not bothering to glance over. “Nah, I mean, not other than you just now anyway. Abigail would only take it the wrong way, and it ain’t anyone else’s business. Creepy that there’s folk out there that try and force themselves on you like that though. Must be worse for the women. Harder to fight off a man I reckon.”

He doesn’t answer, just furrows his brow as he watches the surface of the water in silence.

“We… probably got enough to do us for now, we should head back. It’ll start getting’ dark within the hour,” John remarks after several long moments, putting away his fishing pole and grabbing the sack of fish to attach to his horse. “Guess I could try n’read Jack a book before bed at least. I mean if you think it will get Abigail off my back.”

\--

They hitch the horses almost in unison as they arrive back at camp. John leaves Arthur with the bag of fish to bring to Pearson as he slumps off to go make amends with Abigail without being spotted by Dutch.

He nods politely and greets everyone he passes but his heart ain’t really in it. Something stirs unhappily in his stomach. He feels like a liar when he hasn’t so much as said a word, he hates hiding things especially from family. His rear aches violently from the bumpy ride back and he wonders how long he’s gonna have trouble. The rags in his underwear need changing out, they feel sticky with blood, and he needs to use the bathroom something awful but decides he’d rather deal with the stomach-ache from holding it than the sting of going.

“Hold up a second there, son,” Dutch cuts him off on his beeline to Pearson’s set up, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him in his tracks.

“If this is about work again, I didn’t have any leads on the go this afternoon so took to gatherin’ food with Marston. I can head out this evenin’ and talk to some of them folk in valentine about that bank job some of the girls were chasin’. Could be somethin’ in it,” He grunts tiredly, hardly having the energy to defend himself.

The older man only chuckles, patting his shoulder and turning him around to walk with him. “Now, I know you do your fair share around here, no need for fuss. How’s the head? Weren’t causing too much trouble fighting last night I trust?”

He shifts a little uncomfortably as they walk, Dutch’s hand presses against his lower back to lead him in the direction. The hand presses warm against his skin, irritating the scratches on his back. The ones that hot, filthy nails had made. “Course not, just a tussle. I’m fine, and no trouble caused.”

_“Quite a tussle, my pet…”_

He shivers and Dutch seems to notice, withdrawing his hand and giving him an odd look before continuing. “Good, good. See, Micha has something of a lead down tomorrow evening. Train robbery. Looks promising, and I think you’re the man I need for the job.”

He sighs heavily through his nose, shifting the wet sack of fish over his shoulder for more stability. “You know my feelings about Micha. Besides, another train? They’re never worth the effort. Stoppin’ them is a nightmare and the take is usually a pittance for the amount of law that come sniffin’.”

“It has payroll on it, Arthur. Ain’t a passenger train. Now I won’t lie to you son, there will be a few guards for it, but that’s why we need you there. You’re our best gunman,” Dutch insists, grabbing the man’s biceps excitedly. “We just need one big enough score and we can get outta here, head West. It’s gonna be tough, but it will all be worth it, my friend.”

_“See, friendship ain’t so tough…”_

He visibly grimaces, feeling his muscles tensing a little beneath Dutch’s grip. The man either doesn’t notice or chooses not to say anything as he grins his confident showmans smile and takes the bag of fish from him. “Go get some food and think on it, Son. You, me, Micha and Javier. Will be a piece of cake with the four of us. Things are going to change for us soon, big changes are coming, great things.”

“Yeah alright,” He grunts, thankful when the older man turns towards Pearson’s tent with the bag, leaving him in peace. His tongue feels dry in his mouth and his shoulders feel tense, hands a little numb from being clenched into fists. He isn’t sure why he’s so worked up, ain’t nothing to be worked up about. It wouldn’t be that far to ride, and maybe the pain will have died down by tomorrow anyway, and much as Micha was an ass, he wasn’t worth the stress of getting frustrated over.

Slowly he moves over to the campfire to join the others helping themselves to the dinner pot. He ain’t sure he’s even hungry but it’s been a while since he last ate.

“Hey English, I overheard talk of a train job tomorrow. You be needing an extra gun?” Sean calls between swigs of beer, tipping the neck of his bottle towards him as he shuffles to one side and places his half eaten bowl of food next to him on the log.

Patiently waiting for Tilly to finish serving up her own bowl, he grabs an empty bowl from the stack, glancing at the younger man across the fire with a frown. “Ain’t my job, it’s Micha’s, I’m just along for insurance. Go ask him, or Dutch,” He grunts, “Why you even interested? Thought you was following up on that lead, the stage thing?”

“Eh, was a dead end and I’m feeling riled up for a big job. Plus I think you old boys could do with a bit of youthful energy along for the ride,” He calls back before resuming his food, “You tried this yet? Ain’t half bad for Pearson.”

“I heard that.” Pearson calls over, irritation written all over his face.

Arthur grabs the scoop to fish some of the liquid into his bowl, “No, what is it?”

“Crawfish Gumbo. Charles was up near the swamps this morning and brought back Crawfish, thought I’d do something special. Not that it’s ever appreciated around here,” Pearson snaps.

The smell hits his nose the second the liquid hits the bowl in his hand and suddenly he’s right back there.

The muggy air of the swamp. The stink of that food cooking. Chained wrists. No guns. Sharp, pounding pain in his rear from the unwanted invasion. Scratches and bites. Purrs and rumbling whispers. Fowl hot breath against his ear. A hot limb invading his mouth, hurting his throat. Splintered, filthy floorboards cutting into him. Hands pawing at his crotch, at his chest, everywhere.

“Arthur?”

He isn’t sure who it is that calls for him, or for how long he’s been zoned out. His mouth feels numb and his hands ice cold. He’s not in the swamp, he’s by the camp fire, and vomit is rising up his sore throat dangerously. It’s all he can do to drop the bowl with a clatter in the grass and stumble just a few steps before emptying the content of his stomach violently into a bush.

He doesn’t make out what’s being said behind him in hushed, concerned voices as a few people put down their bowls and glasses and shuffle to find somewhere else to sit. Hosea comes up behind him and lays a gentle hand on his back as he tries to catch his breath.

“You okay, Arthur?”

He lifts a hand to wipe his mouth so that he can reply, though when he glances down to see a curly dark hair stuck to his fingers with the mess of vomit, the vile disgust of it makes his stomach rebel again and he’s sick twice more. Throat burning and shoulders quivering as his body convulses with the force of it.

He’s thankful Hosea says nothing more, simply waits for him to finish up and catch his breath before slowly leading him back to his cot, hand never leaving his back. The older man brings him an empty bucket and a glass of water, which he downs like he’s been lost in the desert for three weeks. Anything to rid his mouth of the feeling.

“This a too-many-drinks type thing or a turned stomach type thing? I ain’t judging right now, I’ll lecture you on it tomorrow, but I gotta know if I need to keep people away from you or not. Last thing we need is the whole camp getting sick,” The older man asks gently, sitting next to him on the bed and rubbing his shoulder.

He coughs a little and presses the back of his hand to his slimy mouth praying he wouldn’t need the bucket. After a moment he breaths a little easier and glances wearily at Hosea in the dim evening light, a slight wash of calm rolling over him in the presence of the man that was near like a father to him. “Ain’t contagious, ain’t drunk either. Just…ate something bad probably. Just need to…sleep it off. Sorry ‘bout the mess, came on kinda suddenly.”

“Can’t be helped sometimes, besides, better one end than the other,” The older man remarks simply, tugging a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handing it to him to wipe his mouth with, “Haven’t seen you get that sick in a long time, must have been one bad oyster.”

“Yeah, could say that,” He grunts as he wipes his lips clean and squeezes the bridge of his nose, “I dunno. You got any whisky on you?”

Hosea raises a brow as he sticks his hand in his pocket to retrieve a flask, offering it politely. “Won’t help with your stomach you know. You’d be better off with some tea or something.”

“It’ll help me sleep though. Just need a good nights rest, I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” He grunts, uncapping the metal flask and downing it in one.

The older man takes back the empty receptacle and returns it to his pocket, giving him a dismissive pat on the knee before heading back out to the campfire.

He lays down on the cot with a quiet groan, letting his hand fall against the side to rummage around underneath, grabbing at one of his many half filled bottles of various alcohol. He isn’t sure he cares what he grabs. Right now the unpleasant, grimy taste in his mouth is making him nauseous to think about. He envisions the presence of the disgusting hot organ assaulting his throat and it makes him gag. Liquor, and lots of it. That’s what he needs. To just forget about the whole experience.

He cracks open the closest bottle and drinks until the world is hazy and his mind blurred.

\--

_The stink of gumbo._

_Rapid, pleasured gasps._

_Restrained arms._

_Pain. Unpleasant heat._

_“Oh I’ll bet you hate ol’ Sonny now….Don’t hate him.”_

\--

He turns over and dry heaves a few times against the bucket. Misery of a hangover hitting him like a truck, he’s getting too old to handle this much anymore like he used to and he knows it. His head pounds and his vision swims, yet the itch under his skin to bathe is near unbearable. The feeling of dirty hick hands all over his body in his private space makes him inwardly squirm and want to scratch away any evidence.

He groans quietly as he gets up, swaying a little and sitting back down as the world tilts before trying again with more success and heading to the river. It’s early, can’t be late than 5am, the camp is silent with sleeping inhabitants and the sun has yet to fully rise over the horizon. He peels his clothes from his sweaty skin, dumping them in a pile and tossing away the bloodied rags. The bleeding, thankfully, seems to have stopped, at least for the moment. He doesn’t keep hight hopes; the wound could easily re-open on a rough house ride, and at some point soon, he wouldn’t be able to put off using the restroom any longer, but for now it was a relief.

The icy water chills his bones but sobers him up a bit. He sits where the river runs deep and lets the fast running water rush past his skin, scrubbing with his hands at the scratches on his back as best he can and splashing water on his face to rid himself of sweat. Occasionally something will swim past his leg or brush against his thigh, perhaps a fish or maybe river debris, he doesn’t mind. Something about it is peaceful. Like being a part of nature.

He bathes for as long as his body can withstand the cold and then climbs out onto the shore, re-clothing himself before heading back up to the camp where a few individuals are beginning to rise and get breakfast. Pearson has porridge on the go, he can smell the sweetened oats cooking, but his stomach still feels sour. He instead slinks back to his tent, perching on his cot and helping himself to a few dry crackers from his bag.

It’s only when he reaches to his bedside table to grab for it that he realises he’s misplaced his journal. It wasn’t like him to lose track of it, it usually went everywhere with him, but he supposed he had left it behind to go fishing yesterday. Suspecting it had probably just fallen down the side of his cot or gotten taken with the laundry, unknown to him in his drunken stupor the night before, he sighs as he begins searching his little area. Moments later stepping out to see if he’d left it elsewhere in the camp.

“Recovered from the gut rot then, Morgan?” Bill mutters as he slouches past in his half-undone union suit, bowl of porridge in hand.

He grunts slightly in acknowledgement, scratching at where his shirt was sticking to his still wet skin uncomfortably. “Guess so. Bad business.”

“Ya know, I was out in the swamps last night,” the other man mutters suddenly, turning to greet him properly, waving his dirty spoon in the air in gesture, his slouched stance presenting an air of lazy confidence, “Met an interesting fellow who knew all about you. And I mean ALL about you.”

It only takes the teasing lilt in Bill’s voice and that disgustingly smug grin for it to hit him like a railcar exactly what the man was talking about. In barely a second he feels a sudden wave of panic, humiliation, then suddenly utter rage.

“Get the HELL OUT OF HERE!” He demands, smacking the bowl out of the other man’s hand. It’s an overreaction, he knows it is, but his chest pounds and he feels his muscles almost twitch with rage. He knew. Bill KNEW. He’d spoken to that sick freak hillbilly, he knew what happened, he did nothing, and now he might tell everyone.

“Jesus, Morgan. Whatever!” Bills snaps back viciously, throwing his hands up. He kicks the overturned bowl on the floor with a glare, looking moderately like he’s about to turn and storm off in a sulk, but instead leans in a little further. “Bet you liked it, didn’t you?” He hisses.

It’s suddenly like something snaps in his head and before he even has the chance to think logically anger takes over and suddenly his fist is colliding with Bill’s face hard enough to knock him to the ground with a loud curse. “I SAID GET OUTTA HERE YOU USELESS SACK A SHIT”

“FUCK YOU,” Bill cries back, a nasty bruise already starting to form under his eye. He grabs the empty metal bowl and throws it at Arthurs head, then lunges up to punch him back.

Arthur grabs the back of Bills thinning hair and yanks him back, slamming his head into a tree as the man’s fist collides with his aching stomach, making him double over a bit.

It quickly turns into a vicious fist fight until Dutch seems to appear through the gathering crowd of worried watchers and shoves himself in between them both furiously. “The HELL are you boys doing?!”

“Morgan started it!” Bill spits out, pressing a hand to his bleeding cheek as he kicks the dirt.

Arthur shuffles back a little. His chest still pounds with frustration and panic and utter rage. It doesn’t help that now they’re being watched, and he has to physically restrain himself to avoid the incredible urge to bring a gun to this fight.

“I don’t care who started it, it’s FINISHED. Christ. I won’t have childish fighting in my camp. Arthur, what was this even about? “ Dutch snaps, slapping Arthurs elbow almost threateningly to push him to speak up.

Arthur scowls, gritting his teeth and spitting a little blood to one side, “Nothin’. It’s done now.”

“Clearly it isn’t NOTHING because you nearly beat the last ounce of sense out of Bill and he can’t afford to lose that. The hell has gotten into you?!” The older man demands, taking a threatening step forward.

He’s about to lash out, spit about how it was no-ones business, unsure why he suddenly wants to take it out on Dutch of all people, when he’s instead suddenly cut off.

“I know why the Cowpolk is all worked up. Overheard their little conversation”.

That voice. His head snaps towards Micha in the mist of the crowd, who to his moderate horror is casually holding his journal and flicking through the pages like it’s an afternoon read.

“He’s all worked up and weepy because some hick hogtied and fucked him in the swamp,” Micha announces, tone patronising as he mimics a crying baby with his hands, “That’s why he came back without his gun a few days back, and why he’s been bleedin’ all over his saddle like a goddamn bitch on her period. Couldn’t hold his own against one single feller and now he’s gone yellow. Poor Bill here was only trying to confront him, clearly the big guy just can’t handle his emotions right now. Maybe you should go talk with the women about your feelings, Morgan, or maybe you can go talk to Abigail and she can give you some tips on being a working girl, since you’ve got some experience now.”

He thinks he might kill Micha on the spot. Fortunately for the other man, he can’t bring himself to move. He’s not even sure he’s breathing. Eyes are on him from all directions.

There’s a moment of quiet after Bill starts to chuckle to himself and Sadie, who’s stood near him, smacks him in the side of the head warningly with the handle of her gun. Then Dutch looks at Arthur through narrowed eyes and it unsettles his stomach that he can’t tell what the old man’s thinking. “Is this true….Arthur?”

He hesitates, opening his mouth to speak and shutting it again quickly as he recollects his thoughts. Most of his energy going to trying not to vomit up the few cracker’s he’s managed to keep down over Dutch’s shoes. He breathes a few times heavily as he regains some composure, then without warning shoves past Dutch and storms over to Micha, tearing the journal out of his hands roughly. “No it ain’t true. It’s all goddamn lies, all of it. Both of them is just sick assholes,” He snaps viciously, shoving Micha violently out the way and heading straight to his horse. He doesn’t care that people are staring. Shame burns deep in his chest and he needs to get away from their prying eyes, “Stay the FUCK away from me.”

“Arthur-“ Dutch calls after him, through the few murmurs of undistinguishable chatter being muttered from the group.

He doesn’t respond. He climbs onto Tamar and leaves without looking back.

\--

A cool head and a dismissive attitude was what was needed in that situation and he hadn’t provided it, his outburst was only going to make him look suspicious. He needed to keep his head, anger had always been his downfall and he suspected it always would be.

He doesn’t ride far, there’s still a vicious ache in his behind every time he bumps against the saddle. Just down river enough to not be bothered, a few miles. Finding a log to perch on near the riverside he releases his death grip on his journal and flicks it open, near snarling when he finds a slimy wad of chewing tobacco stuck between two of the pages. Fucking Micha. He’d have killed the man a long time back if it wasn’t for Dutch preaching for the guy.

After tearing out the ruined pages he finds a blank sheet and starts to draw. The flowing river, the stag on the opposite shoreline drinking peacefully, the trees and the way they filter the sunlight like a pretty kaleidoscope against the grass. Drawing has always calmed him, torn him away from whatever hardships reality brings, just focusing on the soft movements of his hand and the smudgy carbon marks on the paper. He becomes lost in it, and he’s not sure how long he’s been working when there’s a soft rustle from behind him and the soft clop of hooves he recognises by sound alone as belonging to Silver Dollar.

“Ah, didn’t storm off too far then. Dutch thought you might have headed into Valentine but I supposed since you weren’t feeling well perhaps you’d go somewhere for some peace and quiet.” Hosea calls out in a friendly tone as he slides off his horse with a cough, giving the animal a fond stroke.

Arthur doesn’t look around at him, he keeps working on the drawing, irritated trying to fix the head of the stag which didn’t quite look right. “Apparently even out here I can’t get any damn peace and quiet then.”

“Calm down, I heard the commotion and came to see if you were alright, that’s all,” The older man tosses back as he strolls over, peering down over his shoulder at the drawing, “I never understood how you could do that.”

“Do what?”

Hosea clicks his tongue, moving to sit down next to him on the log, “Put pencil to paper and make things look like…that. It’s quite a talent. I sure didn’t teach you to do it, neither did Dutch. I got you some paper one night to teach you to write and the next day you’d started drawing all over it.”

He continues to guide the pencil along the paper, scratching soft cross hatching to shade the soft shoreline, “My ma used to draw. ‘Least I think she did, was pretty young at the time I guess. I remember that, though,” He mutters, “Got it from her I s’pose. Pretty useless skill in this line of work. Keeps my head level though, makes me want to kill people less.”

“I suppose everyone has a different way of dealing with their anger at the world. Yours is certainly more creative than most folk who just drink the rage into silence,” Hosea mutters, “Though it smells like you’ve been doing that too”. He continues to watch quietly until Arthur puts down the pencil in defeat, “Micha shouldn’t have been going through your private things. Everyone is entitled to privacy and he broke a camp rule by taking that from you. It’s another reason I think we should just cut the man loose, but you know how Dutch can be.”

“I’d shoot the bastard if not for Dutch. Don’t know what he see’s in him. Nothin’ but trouble,” He grunts, closing the book and adjusting the leather strap around it before giving Hosea his exhausted attention.

The elder man shifts to pat his knee a few times before glancing out over the lake, the stag now long gone with only tracks in the mud to suggest it was ever even there. “You want to talk about what happened?”

Arthur frowns, shoulders ridged in discomfort, “Nothing happened, Hosea.”

“We both know that isn’t true, but I won’t pressure you,” Hosea replies easily “Just know you can tell me anything. I’m not here to judge you, never have been. Unless you do something stupid like drunkenly kidnap someone.”

He snaps his head around, brows furrowing, “I didn’t kidnap her, she wanted a ride home. I just…forgot where I was going. It was eight years ago, are you ever going to let it go?”

“Not for as long as it annoys you for. I keep a list of those stories.” Hosea’s smug grin would be unbearable on anyone else but worn on the old man it only makes him want to chuckle. “Remember a good few years back when John dragged a dead alligators head into your bed while you were sleeping? When you woke up you screamed a pitch I’ve never heard come out of a grown man.”

“Did you just come out here to relay ancient stories to embarrass me?” He grunts nudging the older man playfully with his shoulder.

The elder chuckles and stands up, brushing the dirt from his pants, “Mostly, but I also wanted to make sure you were alright. You haven’t been yourself lately”. Hosea rubs absentmindedly at his sore shoulder and kicks the heal of his boot in the dirt, “I know you like to chide me for worrying, and perhaps I am a ridiculous old man sometimes. But you’ve been unusually quiet, and when you were sick at the campfire last night you looked like you’d seen a ghost. Then John mentioned you’d been asking him peculiar questions on your fishing trip, and I’d started to wonder if you’d gone through something you weren’t telling us.”

Arthur scowls at the dirt, hoping the shade cast upon his face from the brim of his hat was enough to hide how warm his skin felt and the uncomfortable grimace that cements his lips. Hosea is like a father to him, he always has been. The man has always been there for him and even being in his presence he can feel his resolve breaking despite the effort he forces into keeping it strong. “Leave it to John to rat on me for trying to make small talk.”

“I ain’t forcing you to talk about anything you don’t want to, you know I never would. You were always a man of few words,” Hosea hums thoughtfully, shifting on the uncomfortable log, “But you have my full confidentiality if you want it.”

He bites the inside of his cheek, already hating himself for giving in before he’s even opened his mouth. “Ahh, I was….I was in the swamps, just passing through. Some feller invited me in for some food and I was dumb enough to take him up on the offer. He just seemed lonely and pathetic, didn’t look like much of a threat. Got inside and he cracked me over the head with something, knocked me out. Bastard tied me up and…” He pauses hesitantly, suddenly feeling his stomach roiling uncomfortably as memories rush back as the words spill out, shuddering quietly.

Hosea must have noticed as he places a quiet hand on his forearm but says nothing, listening politely with an unreadable stony expression.

“…Well you uh, you get the gist of it. He used me while I was half conscious and weak, then dumped me in a field a few miles out. Shouldn’t be bothering me as much as it is, I know that. I ain’t hurt….well I got a nasty headache and a few cuts and scrapes but I’ve felt a thousand times worse. For some reason it just-“ He waves his hand vaguely, lost for the words he needs to express himself and frustrated for it, “I could go back and kill him. I should, he deserves it. I could do it easy, bastard was just a bony old man. I just…the thought of going back there…. I keep having these nightmares about it. It’s dumb, I know that. It’s just every time I remember it I feel like I’m back there, can feel it in my mouth and it makes me feel like I’m gonna puke. I don’t know…..I don’t know how to make it stop, Hosea.” He hates how quiet his voice trails off to be, betraying the vulnerability and fear he works so hard every day to keep hidden behind the bravado. He can’t even bring himself to look at the other man, fearing seeing pity in those wise old eyes he respects too much.

The silence between them stretches out for what Arthur feels is a lifetime before Hosea lets out a soft breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and cautiously puts an arm around his shoulder. “That’s a….it’s a bad business,” He says quietly, the gentleness in his voice allowing Arthurs shoulders to relax a bit, “You know there ain’t no shame in it, feeling this way I mean. It’s not the same as being beaten or shot at. There are some sick bastards out there. You always were a trusting feller, maybe too much for your own good sometimes but it’s something about you that’s special, especially in a life like this one. I hope the bad experience won’t ruin that for you.”

“I’d argue there’s plenty of shame in it, else I wouldn’t be feeling like I wanted to drown an ocean of whisky and never set foot back in camp,” He jokes with the bitter ghost of a smile, “I could man up to it to the others if I didn’t feel so bothered by it. You know, half the women in camp have been attacked like this before, I know because I’ve shot some choice bastards and thrown their bodies to the ‘gators after I’ve found them cryin’. But after the tears they just… move on. Never bring it up, continue with their lives. Christ, if even the girls can handle this better than I can…I feel like I’m falling apart, and over what? Maybe I am as pathetic as Micha seems to think.”

“Jesus, how hard did that bastard hit you in the head? Talk like that again and I’m gonna start thinking he’s smashed out the last few brains you had up there,” The elder man chides firmly, never removing the arm from around him despite his glare, “If you think those girls don’t still suffer the after effects of that stuff then you really are as dense as you look. Nothing is pathetic about the women in our camp, and ain’t nothing pathetic about you. Never has been, you’re the sturdiest feller I know, son, you hold this whole damn place on your shoulders and without you I fear it would collapse. Now somethin’ awful happened to you, ain’t no arguing that. You have a right to sting from it, to need time to recover. Not all injuries in this world are physical. All you need is some rest and time around your family and the fear will go away on its own. Take a break for once in your life, and cut yourself some slack”.

Arthur doesn’t respond, eyes firmly staring at his hands in his lap, but the words sink in and something in his chest releases its grip. Breathing in the crisp air and the smells of the riverside he closes his eyes for a moment. “Dutch wants me out on a mission this evening with-“

“Forget about that. Today’s your day off. Dutch, Sadie, and John ran off on some errand before I left anyway. Said it was important. They won’t be back until later, and you know how Dutch is. If they need a gunman for the mission, they can take Lenny, kid is desperate to prove himself anyway he’ll probably jump at the chance.” The older man snaps, pulling him a little closer so that Arthurs shoulder is resting against his side. “As for them nightmares, I wish there was more I could do to help, but if you’re wanting to you’re welcome to stay in my tent for a few nights. I can wake you up if you start squirming, we can talk it out.”

He can’t help the wry chuckle that forces its way through the serious mood, glancing up at Hosea through tired eyes, a sudden weariness taking over, “I ain’t a kid, don’t need a nursemaid because of a few bad dreams.”

The smile is returned, Hosea’s eyes sparkling with that gentle playfulness he’s used to seeing across the campfire on a warm night when everyone’s singing. It’s a look that feels like home, like family.

“You remember when you were what, fourteen, fifteen. Had awful nightmares for months, pissed yourself in your bedroll one night you were so scared.”

“I reckon I DON’T remember that actually, on account of the fact you n’ Dutch got me good and drunk because I didn’t wanna sleep. I was so smashed I don’t remember nothin’ for days after that, was more likely the booze than the bad dream that made that happen, I was only a damn child” Despite the wave of embarrassment, the fondness in his teasing mimics the older man’s exactly, and he laughs when the other man starts too.

“Anyway. I think they were about your pa, but lord knows I don’t remember the details. Still, you were terrified. Me and Dutch didn’t know what to do with you, you were a vicious, cold, little bastard during the day, but at night you’d huddle by the campfire sinking in on yourself like a frightened tortoise and refusing to go to bed ‘till you passed out in the dirt,” Hosea continues fondly, “Then one night I was sat with Dutch in his tent reading my book aloud, I forget which one, had a funny part with a soldier and a naked island lady I believe. We were laughing so hard that Dutch started choking on the tobacco he was chewing, I went out to get him some water and found you curled up right outside the tent flap sleeping in the dirt like a pup, yet it was the most peaceful I’d seen you in months. We realised you weren’t afraid of going to sleep, you were afraid of waking up alone and scared after the bad dreams, so we set up a big tent for the three of us to sleep in together.”

He hums, feeling a warmth bloom in his chest at the faded memory of the first night he shared a tent with the two men who rescued him from the streets and taught him everything. The night he woke from terrible dreams and instead of being met with darkness and cold, was handed a mug of warm coffee and was allowed to curl up in a blanket and listen to familiar voices read stories out loud until he was calm enough to drift back off. He sighs through his nose, smile never budging as he dips his head with a fond chuckle. “I always thought we started sharing a tent back then because it was easier to tear down and put up one big tent than three small ones, didn’t realise it was because of me. You two were soft as butter back then, lord, it’s a wonder I didn’t turn out some yellow milksop.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with accepting help, Arthur. People need other people, no man is an island, not even you. You were never good at taking a hand when you needed it. Jesus if you knew the amount of times we had to trick you into it,” Hosea laughs, nudging him with his shoulder, “You got nothing to prove son, you’ve never been yellow and I doubt you could if you tried. Just let people in every now and then, it helps you know, in the long run.”

\--

They sit together in silence for a long time. Not an uncomfortable silence, just a peaceful one, enjoying each other’s company. Neither suggest they move from that spot; at some point, he’s not sure when, Hosea takes out his book to read quietly, picking out and narrating funny sections aloud, and Arthur takes out his journal once again to jot down his thoughts and sketch wildlife as it comes and goes around them.

It’s several hours before they eventually head back to camp, riding side by side enjoying the crisp afternoon breeze, and he feels at peace in a way he hasn’t for days, perhaps longer.

Dutch, John, and Sadie have since returned from whatever they were away taking care of, the swampy mud on all three of their pairs of boots not going unnoticed. Arthur finds his stolen money and missing gun on his bedside table, flecks of fresh blood on the handle. No one say anything about it, but he cleans it and slips it back into the holster gratefully.

Around the campfire they enjoy a chicken broth that’s easy on the stomach, Pearson has thrown away any leftovers of last night’s gumbo. Micha sits sulkily on the other side of camp refusing to join in, a prominent bruise around his eye rather similar to the one that’s formed on Bill’s face. No one tells him what happened, but he’s quick to notice the similar bruising on Charles’ dark knuckles.

No one mentions the journal, or what happened that morning. They sing campfire songs as Javier plays the guitar. Swanson reads out a passage from the bible that no-one is sure is true. Dutch puts a fatherly hand on his shoulder as he re-tells a story from ten years ago where Arthur rescued John from a lake on a fishing trip that has everyone laughing. Lenny hands him a beer and they drink together while throwing dramatic comments at one another about not overdoing it this time. Sean drags him over to play poker with him and John and they stay up until the early hours betting their spare change and boasting about jobs gone right over warm beer and crackers.

And when it’s time to turn in for the night, if Arthur drags his bedroll across camp into Hoseas’ tent, no one brings it up.

It doesn’t go away overnight, he knew it wouldn’t. But he no longer feels pathetic, or weak. In the mists of family all he feels is at home, and healing comes with time.


End file.
